Gasping for breath, she stood suddenly erect and opened her mouth wide, sucking in great gulps of air, her hand widespread over her belly like an open fan. Her fingers touched something wet and sticky, and she looked down sharply, expecting more blood, expecting to find herself soaked in blood that seeped from a hundred secret wounds.
She raised her hand slowly toward her swollen eyes.
She fainted when she realized the wet and sticky substance on her belly was semen.
Bert Kling kicked down the door of her apartment at ten-thirty the next morning. He had begun trying to reach her at nine, wanting to work out the details of their day together. He had let the phone ring seven times, and then decided he’d dialed the wrong number. He hung up, and tried it again. This time, he let it ring for a total of ten times, just in case she was a heavy sleeper. There was no answer. At nine-thirty, hoping she had gone down for breakfast and returned to the apartment by now, he called once again. There was still no answer. He called at five-minute intervals until ten o’clock, and then clipped on his gun and went down to his car. It took him a half hour to drive from Riverhead to Cindy’s apartment on Glazebrook Street. He climbed the steps to the fourth floor, knocked on the door, called her name, and then kicked it open.
He phoned for an ambulance immediately.
She regained consciousness briefly before the ambulance arrived. When she recognized him, she mumbled, “No, please, get out of here, he’ll know,” and then passed out again.
Elizabeth Rushmore Hospital was on the southern rim of the city, a complex of tall white buildings that faced the River Dix. From the hospital windows, one could watch the river traffic, could see in the distance the smokestacks puffing up black clouds, could follow the spidery strands of the three bridges that connected the island to Sands, Spit, Calm’s Point, and Majesta.
A cold wind was blowing off the water. He had called the hospital earlier that afternoon and learned that evening visiting hours ended at eight o’clock. It was now seven forty-five, and he stood on the river’s edge with his coat collar raised, and looked up at the lighted hospital windows and once again went over his plan.
He had thought at first that the whole thing was a cheap cop trick. He had listened attentively while Buddy told him about the visit of the blond cop, the same son of a bitch; Buddy said his name was Kling, Detective Bert Kling. Holding the phone receiver to his ear, he had listened, and his hand had begun sweating on the black plastic. But he had told himself all along that it was only a crumby trick, did they think he was going to fall for such a cheap stunt?
Still, they had known his name; Kling had asked for Cookie. How could they have known his name unless there really was a file someplace listing guys who were involved with numbers? And hadn’t Kling mentioned something about not being able to locate him at the address they had for him in the file? If anything sounded legit, that sure as hell did. He had moved two years ago, so maybe the file went back before then. And besides, he hadn’t been home for the past few days, so even if the file was a recent one, well then, they wouldn’t have been able to locate him at his address because he simply hadn’t been there. So maybe there was some truth in it, who the hell knew?
But a picture? Where would they have gotten a picture of him? Well, that was maybe possible. If the cops really did have such a file, then maybe they also had a picture. He knew goddamn well that they took pictures all the time, mostly trying to get a line on guys in narcotics, but maybe they did it for numbers, too. He had seen laundry trucks or furniture vans parked in the same spot on a street all day long, and had known — together with everybody else in the neighborhood — that it was cops taking pictures. So maybe it was possible they had a picture of him, too. And maybe that little bitch had really pointed him out, maybe so, it was a possibility. But it still smelled a little, there were still too many unanswered questions.
Most of the questions were answered for him when he read the story in the afternoon paper. He’d almost missed it because he had started from the back of the paper, where the racing results were, and then had only turned to the front afterward, sort of killing time. The story confirmed that there was a file on numbers racketeers, for one thing, though he was pretty sure about that even before he’d seen the paper. It also explained why Fairchild couldn’t make the identification, too. You can’t be expected to look at a picture of somebody when you’re laying in the hospital with a coma. He didn’t think he’d hit the bastard that hard, but maybe he didn’t know his own strength. Just to check he’d called Buena Vista as soon as he’d read the story and asked how Patrolman Fairchild was doing. They told him he was still in a coma and on the critical list, so that part of it was true. And, of course, if those jerks in the office where Cindy worked were too scared to identify the picture, well then, Fairchild’s condition explained why Cindy was the only person the cops could bank on.
The word “homicide” had scared him. If that son of a bitch did die, and if the cops picked him up and Cindy said, yes, that’s the man, well, that was it, pal. He thought he’d really made it clear to her, but maybe she was tougher than he thought. For some strange reason, the idea excited him, the idea of her not having been frightened by the beating, of her still having the guts to identify his picture and promise to testily. He could remember being excited when he read the story, and the same excitement overtook him now as he looked up at the hospital windows and went over his plan.
Visiting hours ended at eight o’clock, which meant he had exactly ten minutes to get into the building. He wondered suddenly if they would let him in so close to the deadline, and he immediately began walking toward the front entrance. A wide slanting concrete canopy covered the revolving entrance doors. The hospital was new, an imposing edifice of aluminum and glass and concrete. He pushed through the revolving doors and walked immediately to the desk on the right of the entrance lobby. A woman in white — he supposed she was a nurse — looked up as he approached.
“Miss Cynthia Forrest?” he said.
“Room seven-twenty,” the woman said, and immediately looked at her watch. “Visiting hours are over in a few minutes, you know,” she said.
“Yes, I know, thanks,” he answered, and smiled, and walked swiftly to the elevator bank. There was only one other civilian waiting for an elevator; the rest were all hospital people in white uniforms. He wondered abruptly if there would be a cop on duty outside her door. Well, if there is, he thought, I just call it off, that’s all. The elevator doors opened. He stepped in with the other people, pushed the button for the seventh floor, noticed that one of the nurses reached for the same button after he had pushed it, and then withdrew quietly to the rear of the elevator. The doors closed.
“If you ask me,” a nurse was saying, “it’s psoriasis. Dr. Kirsch said it’s blood poisoning, but did you see that man’s leg? You can’t tell me that’s from blood poisoning.”
“Well, they’re going to test him tomorrow,” another nurse said.